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Steve Harrington was twenty years old, but most days he felt like forty.
Technically, he was an auto mechanic, pulling in a less-than-glamorous $9.38 an hour at Henderson’s Auto Shop. Mr. Jacobsen, the gruff old owner, kept him on not just because Steve could fix a carburetor in his sleep, but because—according to Mr. Jacobsen—Steve once saved his life from a rabid dog. Steve never corrected him. It wasn’t a dog. It was something from the Upside Down—slimy, many-mouthed, and definitely not of this dimension. But hey, let the man believe what he wants.
When Steve wasn’t under the hood of a car, he was doing something a lot more exhausting: being a not-so-official guardian to a group of kids who’d collectively decided his house was their safe haven. Mike, El, Lucas, Max, Will, Dustin—and Erica, the youngest at twelve—all treated Steve’s place like it was headquarters. They were fifteen, sixteen now, growing older and heavier with trauma that none of them liked to name.
Steve was their mom. Not literally, of course, but he packed snacks, handed out Tylenol, monitored fevers, and tried to shield them from the kind of nightmares most adults wouldn’t even believe. He had help, sometimes—Nancy, Jonathan, and especially Eddie, who took to the role of chaotic uncle like a natural. But even with their support, the weight was constant.
What bothered him more than the workload was the question he never got a straight answer to: Where the hell were their parents?
When Erica had that fever so bad she cried in his arms, there’d been no mother to call. When Max stopped eating, speaking, existing on the anniversary of Billy’s death, Steve sat next to her in silence because no one else showed up. When Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will came home bloodied after getting jumped by some seniors, he was the one wiping their faces clean and fighting the urge to track the bastards down himself.
And El—strangely enough—was okay. Or at least better at pretending she was.
It was all just… a lot. Too much. Steve hadn’t been on a real date in over a year. Not that he had time. Or the emotional bandwidth. Or the courage, really. The truth was, the only person he liked, in that way, was Eddie, and Steve wasn’t ready to unpack his newfound bisexuality—not when there were school lunches to make and concussions to ignore.
But he was tired. So, so tired.
Eventually, Steve reached into the back of a drawer and pulled out a slip of paper the government had given him ages ago. A contact for someone to talk to. A therapist, confidential and state-approved. Because God forbid the truth about Hawkins ever get out.
He called.
The guy’s name was Frank. Graying beard, tired eyes, voice like a scratched vinyl record but kind. Really kind. The first appointment ran close to three hours. Steve told the story in the order he remembered it—Demogorgons, Demodogs, Mind Flayers, Russians, Vecna. He delivered it like a script, emotionless, detached. It was easier that way. Frank didn’t push.
Afterward, Steve went home, packed snacks, and gave the kids big sad smiles as he shooed them off to their actual houses. They hugged him like they knew something was wrong but didn’t want to say it.
At his second session, Steve gave the kids some cash.
“Go buy some cozy crap,” he told them, tossing a few bills on the counter. “Pillows. Blankets. Soup. I dunno, something soft.”
Dustin grinned. “Is this a bribe?”
“Shut up and get snacks,” Steve said, slipping an extra twenty into Dustin’s bag for dice and a new campaign book.
That day, he told Frank about the hearing loss—80% gone in his left ear—and the ringing headaches that came and went like waves. He told him about the dizzy spells, the ankle that clicked ominously every time he walked downstairs, the hip that sometimes locked up so bad he couldn’t drive.
“I don’t tell them,” Steve muttered, staring at a spot on the floor. “I don’t want them to worry.”
Frank scribbled something down. “Maybe they already are.”
On the third visit, Steve walked in like usual. But this time, something cracked.
“I don’t think I can keep doing this,” he said. “Not like this. I wake up and it already feels like the day’s won. But I have to. I have to.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “They look at me like I’m some kind of shield. I can’t let them down. I already let down enough people.”
Frank nodded. Quiet. Present. Then he said something Steve didn’t expect.
“There might be a way to get some support. Financially.”
Steve blinked. “Like… food stamps?”
“No, Steve,” Frank said gently. “Child support. Legal guardianship. A lawyer. Free of charge. The government still wants to keep this all under wraps, and this is the least they owe you.”
Steve sat back in his chair, stunned. “You think they’d go for it?”
“I know someone who’d try.”
Steve didn’t answer right away. The idea felt too big, too strange.
Frank leaned forward. “In the meantime, talk to your people. Robin. Eddie. Nancy. Jonathan. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
That night, Steve sat everyone down in his living room. The kids were out—probably spending the last of his cash on sugar cereal and lava lamps. The adults—his friends, his team—looked at him expectantly.
“I need help,” he said simply. “Like... real help.”
Eddie was the first to move. He sat beside him, their knees brushing.
“Finally,” he whispered, grinning. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”
Nancy nodded. “We’re with you, Steve.”
“Always,” added Jonathan.
Robin just squeezed his hand.
For the first time in a long while, Steve didn’t feel like he was drowning.
***
Steve didn’t tell them right away. Not about Frank, not about the lawyer, and definitely not about what he was planning.
But they knew something was up.
Robin raised an eyebrow every time he passed her off a key and a vague “Can you watch the gremlins for a few hours?”
Nancy asked, “Where are you going?”
And he’d smile—tight at the edges, like he was holding in something sour—and say, “Just... errands.”
They let him have his space, but the suspicion grew.
He wasn’t great at hiding things. His smiles weren’t as bright, his jokes didn’t hit the same, and when he thought no one was looking, Steve would roll his shoulder like it ached. Like everything ached. He was moving slower. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
After a few weeks of this, he finally decided it was time.
He spent all Saturday setting up the backyard. Mismatched tables, old lawn chairs dragged out of the shed, string lights looped through the trees that El insisted made everything “magical.” The house sat far from town, tucked behind woods and silence—a place Steve had inherited from his dad, though no one but Frank knew that. It was quiet out here. Too quiet for a twenty-year-old. But just right for the kind of conversation he needed to have.
He made spaghetti. Too much of it. Garlic bread. Burned one batch, but the second was perfect. Robin brought drinks, Jonathan brought paper plates, and Dustin brought chaos.
By the time the sun dipped low behind the trees, everyone was there. The kids clustered at the far table, laughing too loudly about something Lucas said. The “adults”—Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Eddie—sat closer to Steve, sipping lukewarm soda, eyes occasionally flicking toward him like they were waiting for something.
“Alright,” Steve said finally, standing at the head of the table. He tapped a spoon against his glass, mostly for dramatic effect.
The chatter quieted.
He cleared his throat. “So... this dinner’s not just because I like feeding you ungrateful weirdos.”
“We are grateful,” Mike muttered with his mouth full.
“El said the bread was ‘elevated,’” Dustin offered helpfully.
“Okay, thank you, Gordon Ramsay,” Steve said, earning a laugh. Then he took a breath, and everything in him sobered. “I need to tell you guys something. A few things, actually.”
There was a stillness now. He stayed standing, gripping the back of his chair like it was anchoring him.
“I’ve been dealing with... stuff. Pain. Not just the kind that comes and goes. It’s been years. From all the... you know. Running. Fighting. Getting tossed into walls and knocked unconscious more times than I care to count.”
Nancy looked up sharply. Eddie leaned forward. Robin went still.
“My left ear? Basically shot. Can’t hear much out of it. My hip locks up, my ankle’s garbage. I get headaches so bad I want to cry but can’t because I’m usually making someone mac and cheese at the time.”
There was a pause. Then, softly, Max asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Steve finally sat down. “Because I didn’t want you guys to worry. That’s kind of my thing, right? Worrying for you.”
“That’s dumb,” said Erica. “You’re dumb.”
“Thank you, Erica.”
Robin reached out and put her hand on his, grounding. Eddie mirrored her on the other side, lacing their fingers without saying a word.
“I started seeing someone,” Steve continued. “A therapist. The government actually gave me the number years ago, and I never used it. I finally did.”
He braced himself for discomfort. But no one laughed. No one judged.
“I think that’s really brave,” El said gently.
“Yeah,” added Jonathan. “And overdue.”
He let the breath go. “Anyway, my therapist—Frank—he got me in touch with a lawyer. Government-sponsored. And before you freak out, no one’s in trouble. It’s... good. Or at least, it could be.”
Now came the part he wasn’t sure how they’d take.
“I’m filing for partial custody. Of you guys.”
There was stunned silence.
He quickly added, “Not to take you away from your parents or anything like that. But… if something happens, if one of you gets sick or hurt, I want to be able to get you medical care without calling someone who probably won’t even pick up the damn phone. I want to be able to sign school papers, or sit in on meetings, or be there without explaining why I’m the guy who brings you all to school like some overachieving camp counselor.”
Dustin was the first to react.
“Wait—are you adopting us?”
Steve chuckled, a little caught off guard. “I mean, no, not technically. It’s more like... legal backup. Like if the world implodes again, I can storm into the ER and not get questioned about my ‘relationship to the child.’”
Will looked down at his plate. “You really want that responsibility?”
Steve’s voice cracked a little. “I already have it. I’ve had it. Since the first time I chased a demogorgon into a high school with a baseball bat.”
Robin squeezed his hand.
“So... there’s gonna be a court day,” Steve said. “I want you all there. It’s mostly symbolic, but it matters. To me.”
“Will there be cake?” asked Dustin.
“If there’s not, I’m not showing up,” Erica said solemnly.
Eddie grinned. “Can I wear a suit?”
“You better,” Steve said, smiling, suddenly overwhelmed with love for all of them. “And—uh—I’m telling you all this now because I didn’t want it to be a surprise. This isn’t just my life anymore. It’s ours.”
He looked around the table, his little mismatched family, gathered under string lights in a yard full of half-dead grass and tired hearts.
“Thank you,” he said. “For letting me do this. For trusting me. For letting me love you.”
Lucas raised his glass. “To Steve—our part-time mechanic, full-time mom.”
Everyone laughed and raised their cups, even the ones trying to look unimpressed.
“To Steve!” they echoed.
And as the stars came out and laughter returned to the table, Steve felt—for the first time in a long time—like maybe he wasn’t just holding things together.
Maybe he was building something new.
***
The courthouse smelled like stale air conditioning and floor polish.
Steve had barely slept. He’d ironed his shirt three times and still felt underdressed, too young, too tired, too everything. Robin was at his side, wearing a blazer too big for her shoulders but somehow still managing to look like she belonged. Eddie paced in the hallway like a nervous dad waiting for a baby. Nancy and Jonathan sat on the bench, calm but alert. His team. His people.
Inside the courtroom, the kids were already seated in the gallery, awkward in their button-ups and dresses, elbowing each other like they didn’t realize how big this was. Erica swung her legs like it was math class. Max was a statue. El sat quietly, her hand brushing Will’s. Dustin gave Steve a huge thumbs-up the second he entered. Mike scowled like he was being punished. Typical.
And then came the parents.
One by one, they filed in—some looking sheepish, some annoyed, some like they had no idea why they were there at all.
Ted Wheeler looked bored before the judge even entered. Mrs. Sinclair had her arms crossed like this was a PTA meeting. Joyce looked like she was on the verge of tears—again. And Hopper, freshly reinstated and glaring daggers at the lawyers, looked ready to burst into flames. Claudia Henderson was the only one who gave Steve a tight-lipped, appreciative smile.
Steve tried to breathe.
The judge, a tall woman with silver hair and the weariness of someone who’d seen too many custody battles, glanced at the file before her.
“Steven Harrington, age twenty,” she began, peering over her glasses. “Petitioning for partial custody of seven minors not biologically related to him, citing extended and consistent caretaking, medical necessity, and personal safety concerns in light of documented traumatic events.”
There was a long pause. Then she looked up.
“Well, this is new.”
There were some chuckles. Not from Steve. His palms were sweating.
“Mr. Harrington,” she said, “Can you explain to the court why you’re here today?”
He stood slowly, heart pounding. “Yeah, I—uh. I didn’t ask for this life. I kind of... fell into it. But I’ve been taking care of these kids for years. I’ve taken them to doctors. Cleaned them up after fights. Stayed up all night when they had fevers or nightmares. I’ve worked double shifts and skipped dates and spent my savings on food and books and band-aids because they needed someone. And I guess I realized... it wasn’t temporary. I didn’t want it to be.”
He glanced at them—the kids—his kids. Even Mike looked kind of impressed.
“I’m not trying to take anyone away from their families. I just want to be able to help. Officially. Legally. Without being questioned every time one of them gets hurt or needs me. I want to keep doing what I’ve been doing... but with a little more backup.”
The judge looked over the files again. Then she turned to the row of biological parents.
“Does anyone here object to this arrangement?”
There was silence for a long beat.
Then Ted Wheeler said flatly, “As long as it doesn’t mean I have to drive Mike around more often, I don’t care.”
Karen elbowed him, but didn't disagree.
Mrs. Sinclair gave Steve a hard look. “You love them?”
“Like they’re mine,” he said, without hesitation.
She nodded once. “Then I’m not going to stop you.”
Claudia gave a little wave. “Steve’s more responsible than half the adults in this town.”
Hopper grunted. “He’s a pain in the ass, but yeah. He’s earned it.”
Joyce wiped a tear and said, “They’re lucky to have you.”
It felt like breathing after years underwater.
The judge looked around the courtroom one last time. Then nodded. “Very well. Partial custody granted to Steven Harrington for the following minors: Michael Wheeler, Eleven Hopper, Lucas Sinclair, Erica Sinclair, Max Mayfield, William Byers, and Dustin Henderson.”
Steve blinked.
There it was.
“In addition,” the judge continued, her voice matter-of-fact, “each family will be required to provide financial support. Based on collective income and proportional need, a combined child support total of $566 per week is to be paid directly to Mr. Harrington’s household from the collective families present.”
(Adjusted for inflation, $566 in 1980 is equal to $2,329 in 2025.)
Steve’s jaw dropped. “Wait—what?”
“It’s the law, Mr. Harrington,” she said, eyes twinkling just slightly. “You wanted to be a parent. Parents get paid... sometimes.”
Dustin whooped. El smiled. Even Max smirked. Robin actually fist pumped.
Eddie whispered, “Sugar cereal for everyone.”
As court adjourned and people began to shuffle out, Steve stayed frozen in place until Hopper clapped a hand on his shoulder hard enough to make him wobble.
“You did good, kid,” he said.
Joyce gave him a hug. “They need you.”
Robin hugged him too, tight. “You’re a dad now. Officially. Congrats, Mrs. Harrington.”
Eddie didn’t say anything—just stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, hand brushing his like a promise.
And when the kids finally ran up—loud, ridiculous, beaming—Steve smiled so hard it hurt.
He didn’t feel tired anymore.
Just... full.
Whole.
Home.
***
The party was not supposed to be this big.
It started as a post-court pizza night—maybe some cake, a movie, a few high-fives and emotional decompression. But when you give one teenager sugar and a reason to celebrate, suddenly there’s confetti in the living room and Dustin is DJing with a boombox and two mismatched Bluetooth speakers.
Robin brought sparklers. Erica insisted on balloons. Lucas tried (and failed) to organize a group photo, and Max said absolutely not. El brought flowers for the kitchen. Jonathan lit candles “for ambiance” and everyone forgot they existed five minutes later.
In the middle of it all was Steve—tired, soft-eyed, and somehow still in a button-down from court—watching the chaos unfold with a beer in one hand and cake frosting on his collar. Eddie hovered nearby, quietly, always half-turned toward Steve like he was tuned into the same frequency and waiting for the next chance to talk to him alone.
That chance came after the second round of cake, when the kids were too distracted arguing over who got the last slice to notice Steve tugging Eddie gently by the wrist toward the back porch.
The string lights outside cast a golden haze across the deck. It smelled like grass, and sugar, and cheap candle wax.
Steve leaned on the railing. “They’re happy,” he said softly.
“You did that,” Eddie replied, stepping beside him. “You made this.”
Steve snorted. “I barely made it through court without fainting.”
“Still counts,” Eddie said, then added, “You looked hot in that shirt, by the way.”
Steve flushed, grinning. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And then Eddie leaned in, close and easy, like this wasn’t brand new and terrifying. Like he hadn’t spent months watching Steve raise seven kids with nothing but caffeine and a busted car stereo. Like this was just the right moment.
And Steve didn’t hesitate.
He kissed him.
It was soft at first, just the press of lips—warm, careful, a long-overdue thing. Then Steve moved in closer, hand curling around Eddie’s neck, Eddie’s fingers gripping his waist, and it deepened like the kind of kiss that says we made it, finally, finally, we made it.
It was romantic.
It was cinematic.
It was—
“Oh my god.”
Steve yelped and broke away like he’d been tased.
The sliding door behind them was wide open. Standing in the doorway—mouths agape, expressions ranging from gleeful to horrified—were all seven kids.
Mike was pointing. “You’re dating? Since when?!”
El tilted her head. “Are you kissing because of the cake or because of the court?”
Erica squinted. “Is this allowed? Do we have to fill out another form for this?”
“Why were you making out like a CW drama on the porch?” Dustin demanded, looking personally betrayed. “You knew we were cutting into the backup cake!”
Lucas covered his eyes. “I didn’t need to see it. I could’ve lived a full life never seeing that.”
Max deadpanned, “Honestly? Expected it. I give it a B-plus for emotional payoff.”
Eddie, to his credit, blinked once, then waved casually. “Hi.”
Steve looked like his brain was on fire.
“I—it was just—you weren’t supposed to see that!”
Robin popped out from behind the kids with a soda in hand and no shame whatsoever. “Dibs on Best Man at the wedding.”
“We’re not getting married,” Steve said automatically.
“Yet,” said El, smiling.
“Okay, timeout!” Steve waved his arms like a referee. “Let’s all calm down and go back inside and pretend this didn’t just happen like some kind of weird kissing Bigfoot sighting—”
“You love him!” Dustin yelled.
“I do not!” Steve yelped.
Eddie raised an eyebrow.
“I mean—I do! I just—I didn’t plan on announcing it with frosting in my hair!”
At that, the kids erupted in overlapping chaos:
“Disgusting!”
“I want cake!”
“Do we call you Step-Dad Munson now?”
“Is this why you always let him have shotgun?”
“Wait, does this mean we get a band room in the house?”
Robin, still sipping her soda, leaned over to Eddie and whispered, “Welcome to the family.”
He beamed.
Steve groaned into his hands, cheeks red enough to power a small town.
Finally, he looked up at the mess of them—the chaos, the laughter, the frosting-covered disaster of a family he had somehow built—and shook his head.
“Okay, fine. Yes. Me and Eddie are… figuring it out. So can we please go back to the celebration part of this party and not the interrogation?”
There was a pause.
Dustin lifted his slice of cake and grinned. “To Steve and Eddie, who are totally kissing and still totally grounded in my heart for not telling us sooner.”
“To Steve and Eddie!” the kids echoed.
Steve buried his face in Eddie’s shoulder as everyone retreated inside.
“You okay?” Eddie asked.
“No. I was just emotionally waterboarded by teenagers.”
“But you’re smiling,” Eddie pointed out.
Steve exhaled a laugh, muffled against his shirt. “Yeah. I am.”
The door closed behind them.
Inside, the party resumed—louder, messier, sweeter than ever.
And somewhere between the crumbs and the chaos, Steve finally let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he could have this. Love, family, cake, and all.